


Here in the Slums

by TheNobodyofaSOLDIER



Category: Gangsta. (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Childhood Friends, Comfort, Deaf Character, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grief, Implied Sexual Content, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:49:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28930533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNobodyofaSOLDIER/pseuds/TheNobodyofaSOLDIER
Summary: One shots for the series "Gangsta!"
Relationships: Alex Benedetto/Reader, Nicolas Brown/Reader, Worick Arcangelo/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	1. Alike

[Alex x Prostitute!Reader]

"Ow-!"

"Oh, I'm sorry!"

"No, no, it's fine. Just a bit tight."

Long, nimble fingers weave through the loop of the gauze around your forearm, tugging lightly, loosening it just a little. Oceanic, blue eyes, narrowed with intent, reflect the golden haze of the afternoon sun.

"Another bad one, huh?" Alex more states rather than asks as she tends to the gash along the top of your thigh.

You force out a thin, bitter laugh, pressing the bridge of your nose between your index and thumb.

"Bad is too nice a word," you mutter.

A upward twitch of the mouth, a short breath of hair, and she nods.

"I get you. Some of these guys think they're entitled to what we've given them."

"I know!" the chains break free from your pent up emotions, and you shout. "It's like, 'oh, you're just some sex machine! You can't feel pain at all! So, even if you say, slow down, I'll just take it as a joke."

She clicks her tongue as she runs the soft, cotton ball over the cut. Sharp stinging fans out across the limb, yet you bite your lip to prevent any sounds of pain. She still perceives the grunt hitching in your throat, so she pulls away. Pursing her full, painted lips, she blows a little strand of cool air, soothing the prickling needles beneath your skin.

"I understand what you mean," she replies with a hint of sadness in her voice.

Your brows furrow as you watch her, tanned shoulders slumping slightly. You note the pale scars tarnishing her beautiful, browned skin.

It's true. Alex does understand you. She's been through hell and back again many times all with an assortment of devils along the way. Your heart throbs at the thought of such an angel being soiled at the hands of these monsters.

With a little smile, you slide your fingers through her silky, chocolate hair. She jolts a little at the sudden, gentle caress, and her eyes shift over to you.

"Yeah, you've probably been through worse than me," you say with a crooked smile. "I shouldn't be complaining."

"Oh no!" she protests, cupping your hand in hers. "Don't say that. Your suffering matters just as much."

"I know, but-"

"Hush," the pad of her index barely grazes the rims of your lips. The thud of your heart renders you silent. "I won't have you talking like that about yourself."

Hands still enclosed, she brings yours to her mouth and kisses a scar running from the crook of your thumb and index to your wrist. You mind draws a blank, but you still sense the warmth bubbling in your chest.

"Hey, you've got a little mark there too?" she says with a little giggle. She runs her finger over the sensitive skin, sending tingles down your spine.

Words fail to come to mind, and instead, you laugh faintly.

"You'll be alright," she says.

Again, you nod. Never before in your profession did you encounter someone you could relate to so much, someone you could call a friend.

But, you and Alex are more than just acquaintances, more than just friends.

You two are alike.

And that is something you'll always be thankful, despite the flames you wander through.

"Thanks, Alex, for everything."

As she rises from her seat, gathering the first aid supplies, she returns the favor with an angelic smile.

"Anytime."


	2. Errand

[Worick x Cheater!Reader]

"Here, baby."

"Hm?"

"Want a smoke?"

"Oh, sure. Thanks."

Before you could remove the white stick from the packet, Worick slides it out and lightly pushes it between your lips. A cocky smirk plays along his lips. Before you process the movements, the flame from his lighter floats beneath the tip of the cigarette. The packs of gray catch the orange and yellow, little bits of ash popping from the end due to heat. You inhale the toxic fumes with an intoxicated delight before exhaling a long strand of smoke.

"Thank you," you say with a half smile, and you sink back into sullen sheets.

WIth a low groan, he sinks himself back into the pillows, taking his own breaths of his cigarette.

"Not at all, darling," he replies with a wink.

You scan his features; from the top of his messy, fair hair, to the stubble on his chin, to the distorted scar across his eye, to the ripples, grooves and curves of his skin, defining hardened muscles beneath. You hate to possess such a strong attraction to one of his kind. It is wrong. It degrades your entire upbringing.

But, with the neglect you endure from one you swore your life to, you suppose this is a less painful alternative.

Worick arrives when you ask for his company. You treat him to a meal you prepared, drinks and dessert provided if he so chooses. You sit close together at the table and chat the evening away until your words finally run dry. It seems so mundane, but you adore the company. You adore his company, his smile, his laugh, his wit. Though you enjoy his sexual advances and sexual comments, these moments you love the most. He removes the mask required for his job, talking, feeling and thinking as he sees fit. You want it this way. In fact, you always remind him that you need not the silly pandering most customers ask for. Though paid for pleasures of the night, he is a man, flesh and blood, with flaws, emotions, ideas, a soul, much like you.

And though he never vocalizes it, he appreciates these simple gestures.

It is never until the hours of the night when your passions are ignited. It seems to come so naturally. You never demand. You never tell him when. Hell, you would have been fine going the entire session without a kiss. But, it never ends that way. It flows to smoothly, from dinner, to laughing and cutting up in the kitchen, to lounging on the couch, perhaps in front of the fire, watching the shadows dance along the wall, before you engage in a small, little dance yourselves. Fingers laced, you close the space between your bodies, floating across the floor of the room with delicate sways and movements to the rhythm of the music. Even the faintest of brushes against your skin sparks a fading fire within you.

Desire courses through you as lips meld together for many, bruising and fervent kisses. Your limbs fall limp with every touch, every bite, every expert stroke of his tongue. With him, you are ablaze. With him, the emptiness in your life refills. You cling to him, beg for him, hunger for him, and he satisfy every craving that so tortures you. He pushes you into field of ecstasy you never knew exist until your many nights with him.

And it is something you could never let go of.

You release another thin cloud of smoke between tight lips, and you return your gaze to him. His eye is glazed with thought. The cigarette balances between strong fingers, and the veins along his triceps pulse as his arm keeps his head upright. You wonder what he ruminates over, if he worries as much as you. Despite the ephemeral contracts you share, the feelings for him continue to build and build. It's wrong. It's complicated, but they exist, and it scares you.

But, you speak not a word. After all, this is just another errand for him, no matter what his thoughts are towards you, no matter what tenderness he feels towards you, it is simply an errand.

Nothing more.

After you bury the butt of the cigarette into the ash tray, inhaling the last bit of the strong fumes, you proper your elbow against your knee and smile. The movement stirs Worick from his trance, and he returns the favor.

"You look quite lovely in the morning, darling," he says, trailing a fingertip down the groove of your leg.

The shivers reveal themselves accordingly along your skin.

"Oh, you flatter me," you reply, rumpling your hair. "I must say I'm never fond of them when I'm with you."

"Is that so?" he reaches over and presses his cigarette into the glass.

"It means our time together is coming to an end."

Worick's eye seems to widen at such an affectionate comment. You immediately regret the decision, and pink colors your cheek. But, he chuckles at your shyness.

"No need to worry," he lifts himself up and presses a kiss into your cheek. "I'm only a phone call away."

"And a hefty price," you return with a pinch of his nose.

"What! It's only appropriate for me, right?"

"Oh, whatever," and you wrap your arms around his waist and lay your cheek against his chest. Your own heart quickens when you feel the rapid pulse quickening against your cheek.

Perhaps there is something more behind that flutter.

"Until next time then?"

"Yes."


	3. Silence

[Nicolas x Reader] AU

_Silence..._

The whole concept of silence fascinated you. 

You lived in a world full of noise; the honking of cars, the shouts and blathering of everyday conversation, the humming of electronics and machinery, the occasional call of various animals, the echo of music. 

So much sound filled your life each day. At times, it was almost over stimulating. 

But, Nicolas heard none of it. To him, every bit of this madness disappeared into nothingness. So long had it been this way that it made no difference to him. He continued on. 

Just like anyone else...

You were so convinced that being close with him would be a struggle, that you would have to change a million and one things just to even become slightly acquainted with him. You would never forget your younger days. A ragged, brawny child was he, with black eyes always wide and questioning. From the very beginning, the teacher set an odd foundation for any hopes of making friends, immediately announcing his condition in front of the class. You were ashamed to admit that you nearly took the route of the rest of your friends, simply ignoring him without even making the effort to speak with him. 

Were you ever glad you gathered up the courage to do just the opposite. Who knew that one, awkward conversation, one kind gesture could spur a friendship that would last a lifetime.

Not that boundaries did not exist at first; from his speech, to your ignorance of sign language, you knew what you were signing up for when you became friends with him. If you had a dime for every hour you spent learning this special form of communication, you were certain you’d be rich. Unbeknownst to you at the time, he plowed away, with the help of his closest friend, practicing speech, reading, writing. 

Even then, it was like starting all over. Your hands trembled violently as you signed. He stopped and stuttered when speaking to you. But, the more you practiced, the more your sentences flowed, the more your comprehension increased, and more importantly, the closer you became. Finally, your relationship truly began to flourish. 

You knew you caught the eyes of every passerby with your gestures varying from small to big and laughter breaking silence. But, what did it matter? Your ears often tempted you away, tempted you to return back into the outside world, but as soon as your eyes met his enticing orbs, dark irises full of mystery, a story you had yet to unravel, as soon as his calloused hands formed your name, you followed him into his world, as if nothing else mattered in the world.

And when it all came down to it, nothing else really mattered, and it never did with each ear that passed

Another day complete. Another evening, home alone. The crackling of the fire became music to your ears. 

No tune. No voices. No cars. No _noise._

You took a breath, inhaling the smoky scent of the coals. The fog of sleep settling about you, you closed your book, rose from the supple leather of your chair and stretch away the stiffness settled into your muscles. You check the clock: 7:15 PM. Perhaps a descent time for dinner. You stomach remained silently, but you could still eat. Rubbing away the bits of crust from your eyes, you began to saunter your way into the kitchen, when a light rustle from the couch broke you from your trance. You glanced over at Nicolas as his dark eyes fixated on the performance of light before him behind the frame of his book, the elegant curvature of orange, yellow and red flicking and trembling, casting shadows along the wall. His strong, angular jaw hardened as his mind delved into an unknown sea of thoughts, dark brows knit together, the golden light highlighting his sharp features. 

A smile tickled the corners of your mouth, and you wheeled about to take your place next to him, sinking into the softness of the couch. He sensed your warmth, the fabric of your shirt brushing against his skin, and you cared not whether he looked your way or not. No words crossed between you. Not even a breath exchanged. After placing down his book, his heated hand simply encircled your wrist as he pulled you into his lap. Like a doll to a child, you were perfectly compliant, immediately wrapping your arms around his neck and his tightening around your waist. He pressed his cheek to your chest, nestling into your softness. You inhaled. You exhaled. He felt the light rhythm of your heart vibrating against his skin, the rising and falling of your chest, the gentle pads of your fingers sliding across his scalp. Tracing the tip of your nose around the line of his face, you inhaled his familiar, musky scent, calming and endearing to you. You rested a hand on his chest and traced little patterns on his chest.

_Thump.......Thump.......Thump......._

His heart beat against the tips of your fingers, every vibration, every pulse, all silently telling you of a depth of love far beyond what words could communicate. Your hand spelled out the simple phrase “I love you” into his skin, an effortless gesture that spoke more than what your vocal chords might communicate. Though he glanced not in your direction, his embrace about you tightened, fitting you more to his body, and then he breathed, long, slow, as if at peace with this knowledge. In return, you grinned. With a nod of satisfaction, you darted your eyes over to the colorful light show, dancing before you within the fireplace. 

Most would expect being with someone like him would be troublesome, awkward, a hindrance even. How wrong were they. You couldn’t possibly imagine a state of happiness greater than this. You would not deny the ups and downs, but those were minuscule in comparison to the joy found in each passing day.

For these moments of silence held more meaning, more value, than a thousand words could ever hope for.


	4. You Don't Need To Hear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My little sister actually wrote this. She does not have an AO3 account but wanted to share it!

[Child!Nicolas x Child!Reader] AU

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Sometimes, that one special person will meet you in the least expected moment. Other times, that moment could be the closest, most obvious time in your life, even your childhood. In that case, children who fall in love learn some things that most people don't learn until they grow up. Among those things, it is vital that they know that true lovers value silence. Even in a world of quiet, one will know exactly what the other thinks. Learning this as a child seems an impossible task. After all, children discover the world of sound very early in life, and once they are able to contribute, they will do whatever they can to add in their worth of thought. Few children are not able to give their all to the word of sound, and they need a hand in sharing their thoughts. While one is able to share a world of sound, he can then respond by sharing a world of silence. As one would say about the rest of creation, they cannot live without each other. So was the case with two young lovers.

You would certainly learn so much more about the collaboration of these two elements, starting from the time you were in kindergarten. From the beginning, every child, yourself included, would have to learn that all children learn at their own pace. School expectations made it hard for kids to meet with those who had their pace to go by, and watching them slow down in the classroom was a little discomforting. You would bear this in mind for the years to come as you watched the growth of one child, keeping him to your side unlike anyone else.

"Nicolas," he said on his first day of school, a little awkwardly and a little more loudly than everyone else.

You would never forget the first day of school with Nicolas. You were starting on a coming-of-age path earlier than your peers at the sight of this one. As you continued education on your merry way, you couldn't help but watch his actions, only wondering what kept him from achieving the stats of the other kids. The teacher would write math problems on the board, and upon calling his name, he would hold up his fingers for the answer. She would ask the kids later what they had done for summer vacation, to which he merely widened his eyes and cocked his head. From the very beginning, something did not seem right to you. To top it all off, at the start of October, Nicolas would leave the classroom for at least half a day before you saw him again. There were many questions in your mind: what could he be up to? Did he stop coming to school? Thankfully, he showed up at lunch again. While everyone else seemed to back away from him, you found that you couldn't stay away from him. Those big eyes, often widened with confusion, made you want to talk to him. Enough was finally enough, and you mustered the strength to ask why you couldn't see him before lunch.

Speaking of, Nicolas didn't have any food again. As usual, you found it in your heart to give him something to eat (without telling your parents, of course). All the while, you considered the possibility that Nicolas either had no parents or very inattentive parents--either way, that was the number one thing you knew not to ask about. Nonetheless, you gathered your simple thoughts, taking your seat beside him at the otherwise empty table, tearing your sandwich in half.

"Nicolas? Nic!!" your voice chimed.

A solid fifteen seconds passed before his gaze met yours. Your eyes almost sparkled.

"I see you have no lunch again," your eyes drooped a little sadly, "I want you to have this. Please, tell me if you want more."

Nicolas reached a shaky hand (as usual) to that half sandwich you offered him, and before you could ask twice, he was nibbling it softly. You gave him a moment, remembering at least one more thing: most days, while the other kids were already sat down for lunch, Nicolas was returning a small stack of papers, either to his desk or to his teacher. Today, he went straight to lunch period, and his papers were stacked in front of him. While having the urge to take a peak, it seemed more polite to ask him what they were about first. After all, it was a cardinal classroom rule that students did not look on others' papers.

"Nicolas, I know you're gone in the morning," you began, "and I guess you're still at school…but where? Why aren't you learning with the rest of us?"

Nicolas glanced to you again, little crumbs on the corners of his mouth. Watching him, you reckoned it would be best to repeat yourself--shortening your words as well.

"Why don't you come to class with us?" you spoke a little louder, which was often outside of your comfort zone.

Swallowing hard, he found a way to divulge the truth. As you had gone out of your way to reach out to him, he had no choice but to let you in on a secret that the other kids might not know. He wasn't sure though--kids could pick up on differences quite easily.

"Can't…read…" his voice cracked a tad.

"Wait, what?" you listened in, very intense.

"Teachers said…I can't read…"

As you had hoped, he slid a paper of his in your direction. What you saw scribbled there changed your life forever. As other papers were turned up, you could see an array of red marks, minuses, teachers' notes, and, of course, Nicolas's writing. For the most part, kindergarteners had primitive penmanship; still, you could easily compare it to yours, and the letters appeared in scribbles. Other papers included skewed numbers and little drawings, all seeming to tell a sad story. According to that story, he didn't seem to have many friends. All the same, teachers and students alike didn't like him either, except you. A separate page had a drawing of the two of you holding hands, and despite the strange writing, you distinctly read "(Name) and me."

"So…you've been visiting a tutor?" your eyes watered with tears, "What's wrong, Nic?"

At last, he pointed to his ears, and the answer was so clear. Nicolas, not being able to hear as openly as everyone else, was missing out on some of the education you were receiving. Clearly, teachers were struggling to teach him, and the kids wouldn't even touch him with a ten-foot pole. You gathered in your mind that they were all afraid of him for some strange reason. You couldn't contain yourself much longer, and you tightly embraced him around his shoulders. He didn't know quite how to respond at first, but a single hand touched you lightly on your shoulder blade. He continued:

"Kids say…I-I'm not smart…"

With a fiery passion, you pulled back to face him.

"They said WHAT? How dare they? How DARE they???"

Nicolas cocked his head again.

"Nic!! Don't listen to them! Don't listen. They're wrong. Everyone's wrong about you. It amazes me how--" you darted your eyes about the room to make sure no one heard you, "STUPID some people can be! Just because you have trouble hearing doesn't mean you're not smart. I believe myself that if you try hard, you can be whatever you want. Nic, someday, you could be a genius!!" you dramatically flailed your arms in the air, causing a chuckle in his throat.

"Really? (Name), really??"

"Yeah! Someday, you're gonna be smarter than every single person in this room!! Anyway…well, it's not so bad that you can't hear all the time. There are some things in this world that you shouldn't even hear. People say bad words, they say mean things, and if you don't wanna listen to it, you shouldn't have to. That's why I plug my ears. Just plug your ears to all the mean things you hear, and always be yourself. Okay??"

Nicolas caught on to you inspirational speech and hugged you back. You never expected him to hug you so freely, but he was getting the idea--you wanted him to be your friend. That day would change both your life and his. Nothing like it would ever happen again for the longest time. Such was the attitude you both lived by as you grew up in school together. As you kept in close contact, you would become his personal tutor in many aspects. As you progressed to the high school level, you would have experiences with some foreign students and have the opportunity to teach them. With that training in hand, you would be able to see Nicolas's signing as another language, and with great eagerness, you would latch on to learn a little yourself. It was almost a given. In the process, exciting progressions were made, and there was a vast difference between the beginning and the present day. When he could gather some thoughts, not only did he write in pretty nice handwriting, but he would also produce beautiful content--enough to move you to tears. So much time had passed, and you were ecstatic to see that both of you had stayed in the same school for this long. The likelihood of you guys graduating together excited you tremendously. Never before had you felt so honored knowing a fellow student.

A bright day brought a shining sun, and Nicolas (now grown quite beautifully) was waiting for you at a table. To thank you for all the years you brought food to him for lunch, he had brought you some for a change. Walking out of the dull cavern of your classroom, you noted this from a distance, causing you to run to him and fling yourself into an embrace.

"Nicky!! You brought me lunch?" you cried for joy, making sure everyone still noticed that you were best friends.

Grunting in dismay, Nicolas shoved you off of his back, signing aggressively:

Wait a minute. You have NEVER called me "Nicky" before. Don't you ever do that again.

"Oops, my mistake," you stuck your tongue out at him, the best excuse to make him respond with the same face, "Forget that, you big lug. Thanks for bringing me this food. You really shouldn't have."

What can I say? You have fed me since I was six.

"I did, didn't I?" you giggled, sitting by his side as you had done all these years, "Well, let's not let this go to waste. Let's eat!"

By far, it was perhaps the greatest lunch ever seen in school. You had thirty minutes to yourselves to spend in a little world that you shared only with each other. Such were the ways you had learned to communicate; through every stage and action, you took time to show him that his world was not fully enclosed by the silence. Having you in his life was the first and last song and dance, and no one else could fill the hole where you had put your own sort of music. With every ounce in your body, you held his hands so tight that you would do everything within your power to put your struggles aside. Sometimes, you would forget that other students were bullying you and judging you based on trivial ideas. There was no doubt that people were calling you and Nicolas a "click," a pair of individuals who would not allow anyone else in. Unfortunately, that was partially true. After all, your forethought was based on the idea that no one else was inviting him to partake in the group. As it was your specialty, you simply pulled him away from the group. Aside from your closest friends, you were truly the only person with whom he knew how to speak.

After that heavenly break passed, the day passed as usual. As it was partially your pride and joy, you ably watched Nicolas do his part in class. Compared to where it all began, things had improved steadily. However, when your thoughts diverted, you were thence being troubled by your own bullies, some of which you couldn't bring yourself to mention to him. Steadily, you forced yourself to pull your head out of the clouds and continue working. This temporary satisfaction would not help much in the end, especially at the end of the school day. You had gathered your books as quickly as possible, only to find a mingle of girls and almost run into them by accident. Overall, you were not one to eavesdrop, but you couldn't help but hear this time: different manners of gossip and trash talk, even some about you:

"So you know (Name)? Yeah, she's been acting so weird recently. What a recluse, not even hanging out with anyone except the deaf kid. It's been this way for years. She's so clueless, and she won't act normal like the rest of us. How about we go to the mall and take pictures together to post online? She's gotta see what she's missing!"

All manner of things were spoken, and you could hear them. There were no secrets to hide. You knew it was true. You were not normal, and you didn't try to pretend to be. However, you did not believe it would persist this much. It didn't seem to be enough to drop you off the board of society. As all these things occurred to you, you choked with tears, your mind tossing so many crazy thoughts together:

They're right. I'm sort of a freak. I am not like them at all, and we're barely even friends now. They're too loud! I wish I didn't have to hear this. I wish they would go away. I wish, I wish! I wish things would just go quiet!!

While you kept your sobs in your chest, they echoed a little in the hall where you hid from the pack of girls. All of a sudden, to your surprise, two hands clamped over your ears. Hot breath tickled your neck, and all you could do was watch. At least two more minutes passed as the group took their gossips outside the building. All this time, you were watching in complete silence. Things were being said about you, and all at once, those things disappeared. One hand slowly slid off of your left ear, and someone--you might have figured out who--whispered in your ear:

"Just because people say mean things about you doesn't mean you have to hear them. They say bad words, and they are mean to you behind your back. You don't have to hear them. If you try your best, you can be whatever you want."

As those words flew into your subconscious, gentle tears rolled down your cheeks, so much more happily than the ones before. You reeled around to find your inspiration behind you. After all these years, he could come to you when you needed him most.

"Nicolas…" your breath hitched as you choked up and hugged him tight. Without hesitation, he was also holding you close. Nothing had ever meant the world to you as much as this.

This moment made you see the upcoming future. Not only would you graduate together as friends, but you had concluded at last that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with Nicolas. One way or another, a connection was made that could no longer be lost. In all the times you spent together, you had learned that the world does not need to rely on sound to keep going. In the best moments--if not all the time--silence was preferred. Life was based on listening to each other, even if it meant ignoring others. If he needed sound, you brought it to him. If you needed silence, he brought it to you. The world went on regardless of the others making noise, which you mastered ignoring together. Only the best music could be heard when the rest of the world stayed quiet. In such a case, love did not boast loudly, but sang softly. Such was the story of you and Nicolas.


	5. The Night Before Christmas

[Child!Nicolas x Child!Reader] AU

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3dJ6H0DEV08 Please listen while you read!)

Once upon a time, in land not much different than yours and mine, there was an orphanage, small and meek, with kids of all ages. Despite their modest situation, with little money, with no glory, majesty or luxury, these youngsters were happy here. Not long after each child’s arrival into the orphanage, they became a family. They played games together. They stayed up late into the night, reading each other stories. More importantly, they loved each other, no matter how big or small, no matter their appearance or their background. Everyone was accepted. Everyone was family.

All except one child.

And he made sure it remained as such.

~ ~ ~

T’was the night before Christmas, and all through the house, each child was aglow with the spirit of the season. Every home was a’twinkle with lights inside and out. Each family adorned a tree, each their own color, each their own style, but all still expressed the delights of their spirit. 

Even the children of the orphanage scattered through their abode with glee and zeal. Nimble fingers anxiously folded and tied paper of red and green, scurrying to the tree, surrounding it with their meager and heartfelt gifts. Each little stocking were hung by the chimney with care. Cookies and milk were laid attentively before the dancing flames, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

Yes, Santa Claus visited good children far and wide, including the children at the orphanages, so even their eyes sparkled with magic Christmas brought.

All except one child.

And his name was Nicolas Brown.

Unlike the rest of the children, Nicolas hated Christmas, the whole Christmas season. It brought him no cheer. It brought him no twinkle to his dark brown eyes. It failed to bring even a hint of a smile to his face. 

Please don’t ask why, no one quite knew the reason.

Listening to no one, he lived by his own rules. He hid under his covers and refused to speak to anyone. He stole from the other kids, and he would beat and bruise them if they dared question his actions. He insulted, and he cursed. He earned all their hate, and he begged no forgiveness.

He was the naughtiest child of them all, and all naughty children, for their punishment, received nothing but in their stockings on Christmas.

Nicolas didn’t care. He didn’t care about Christmas, so why should he care if his stocking hung heavy with candy or rocks?

His fellow housemates suspected his shoes were too tight, or perhaps that his head was not screwed on quite right. Some of assumed that he was born with a heart two sizes too smile.

One child knew better, and that child was you.

You had known Nicolas much longer than any of the orphans there. Together did you wander the streets with nowhere to go. Together did you scavenge for crumbs thrown away needlessly. Many a time did he protect you from danger and judging eyes. A strong boy he was, and you witnessed him use that at his best.

You hated to see him resort to such an unfortunate defense mechanism, because you knew he was better than that.

All the same, you knew the secret to his bad behavior, and it all pointed back to one fact and one fact alone:

Nicolas couldn’t hear.

Since the day he was born, he wandered in a world of silence. His mother was dead, and his father used what little he could from him before tossing him to the streets to fend for himself. Despite being able to talk, he hated his voice, speaking only with gestures, faces, and the language of signs. Few knew how to talk with him, and the rest didn’t care enough to do it.

He was hurt.

He was taken advantage of.

He was lonely.

Too many times had his heart been broken and smashed to pieces.

All he knew to do was fight back the world that attempted to break him down,

all while living in silence...

You refused to see your beloved friend suffer in this way anymore.

It was Christmas now, and you were determined to make it perfect for him.

~ ~ ~

Christmas Eve had come, and all through the house, not one creature was stirring - not even a mouse! But, one little scamp - yes! that being you - crept to the staircase, eyes all gleaming with determination. With the utmost scrutiny, you watched the fireplace, remains of coal and ash speckled around the bricks. Black rubber shoes, a vibrant red coat, a deep, jolly laugh, you watched for any sign that might indicate the coming of Saint Nick. Scampering to the sofa, you leapt onto the plush cushions, feinting a slumber, If he knew when you were asleep or awake, then you would at least pretend to sleep. You stirred, and you grumbled, just any restless child might the night before Christmas.

Suddenly, a _thud_ vibrated the living room, and your little heart jumped with excitement. 

_Santa Claus!_ you thought. _He made it in time!_

After squeezing his way out of the tight, brick chimney, he brushed off the dust and the soot, clinging to his fine, velvet suit. A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, looking like a peddler just opening his pack! His eyes twinkled, cheeks with merry dimples, red and frosty from the cold winter’s night. His droll, little mouth curved up like a brow, and the beard on his chin was whiter than the snow, sticking to your window. As he chuckled with glee, his belly jiggling as he did so, you couldn’t withhold your own smile, tickling your cheeks.

Despite your own delight at finally witnessing this legendary yet jolly, old elf, you were on a mission, and a mission you were determined to see through.

As Santa began his work, filling the stockings and laying out all those presents round the tree, you cleared your throat. Much to your surprise, he gave a sharp turn. He knew just where to look. You wondered how many times this had happened before. Bending to your eye level, he whispered with a laugh,

“Merry Christmas, my dear! You’ve been quite good this year!”

Folding your hands with delight, you strained to keep your voice low as your own joy threatened to burst through.

“Thank you, Santa!” you began, trying to stay polite. “But, tonight, I’m not here for me. I’m here for my friend.”

He tilted his head. What a story! He had never seen something like this in all his years of work. Placing down his heavy load, he listened in, anxious for the rest.

With a deep breath, placing your hands behind your back, trying to appear as dignified as possible for a small child, you continued:

“My best friend is Nicolas Brown, and he is very mean to everyone. He causes a lot of trouble, and he doesn’t really seem to care.”

The old man brought a gloved hand to his chin as he scratched his beard, but you smiled as memories of days of old in the streets filled your mind.

“But, in the end,” you said. “He’s not really bad at all,” you pointed to your ears. “He can’t hear anything, and no one really wants to learn how to talk to him. He’s been hurt so much when we lived outside all the time,” much to your surprise and dismay, tears brimmed round your eyes, but honestly, you couldn’t stop yourself. “Not even his daddy wanted him, and he’s saved me so many times!” Without consideration of his response, you clutched his hands and fell to your knees. Your tired, little heart raced, and your cheeks shown in the light, soaking with tears. “Please. Please help him have a good Christmas, Santa. If anyone needs it most, it’s Nico.”

Unsure of what to say, Santa’s mouth hung open in utter shock. Never before did he see a child beg for the sake of another. Even naughty children assumed they had done well and refused to beg for themselves.

Yet, here you were, a little one sobbing before Father Christmas himself, and all for the honor of someone you held dear.

This action summed up spirit of Christmas in such beautiful simplicity he had not seen in centuries. 

With a light touch to your head, triggering you to look up with a hint of embarrassment revealing itself through the pink of your cheeks, you noticed a hint of seriousness in those once glinting eyes.

“My dear,” he began, voice low and sad. “I am quite touched by your gesture here. Keeping watch of all the children in the world is a difficult task,” with a grunt, he sat himself before you, still keeping a hand on your shoulder. “I do my very best to visit children even in the worst of situations, but sometimes, I don’t always get it right myself.”

With a wipe of your sleeve, you simply grinned up at him.

“Well, it’s like you said, Santa,” you assured. “That’s a lot of children. Sometimes, you really can’t see what’s truly going on.”

He nodded slowly and sighed. 

“It’s quite easy to forget that sometimes,” he said. 

“Don’t worry,” you pat his shoulder. “You’re under a lot of pressure! You got a jillion things to worry about!” 

The light returned to his face, and he laughed once more, his normal, jolly self.

“Quite true, my dear!” finally, hoisting himself up, he reached out a hand to pull you from the cold floor. “In that case, why don’t you pick out toys for your friend? I always keep some spare in my bag, just for emergencies,” he winked, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he smiled. “This certainly seems like an emergency, wouldn’t you say?”

Clasping your hands together, you cheered,

“Oh, thank you, Santa! Thank you!”

~ ~ ~

That most magical of mornings finally arrived - Christmas morning! - when every child at every corner of the world, jumped from their nestled covers to rush to the tree and see what Kris Kringle himself had delivered!

You, however, were up before anyone else. Tossing off your covers, you flew over to the corner where young Nico slept. Being the hard sleeper that he was, you always had to take certain precautions to ensure your victory.

Precaution usually took the form of throwing yourself on his back and jumping on him repeatedly, until you heard him cuss or grumble at you.

Today, however, you simply pressed the back of your freezing hand into the crook of his neck. Immediately, he jolted up with glazed eyes bigger than any terrified owl and black hair knotted and messy. You giggled at the sight before tugging on his sleeve. He seemed to blink a thousand times before realizing who stood before him. 

“Nicolas,” you signed. “Come downstairs! I want to show you something!”

Rubbing his eyes with a fist, a groggily swung his legs around. With a low, irritated grumble, he let you lead him, only to shuffle his feet across the wooden floor. Down the stairs you went. When he caught sight of the twinkling Christmas tree, surrounded by presents and goodies all around, he clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes.

“N-No,” he slurred under his breath.

“Nico,” you laughed before you took his arm in your own and guided him to the tree. “Look! Look there!”

You pointed to a section in the corner where various packages were colorfully wrapped and shimmered in the light. Assuming you were doing nothing but showing him your loot for the holidays, he practically growled and attempted to escape. You saw through this guise, only dragging him nearer. 

“Nico!” you pointed to the names printed in bold. “It’s your name! It’s your name!”

Young Nicolas squinted and peered closer. Was this a dream? Could he have been hallucinating? He knelt before the packages: sure enough, along the glimmering paper was his name as clear as the morning sky. Stuck between the red folds was a note:

“Dear Nicolas,

I am so sorry for all the trouble these passing Christmases. I know how frustrated you must have been, going through all that and only receiving more grief for it. No wonder you’ve been so angry! I have an assortment of gifts for you. I know it may seem small in comparison to all those years, but I hope it brings a smile to your face this morning. A Merry Christmas to you!

Sincerely,

St. Nicholas”

The boy’s mouth dropped open. His eyes bulged. All of time seemed to stop at that very moment. You bit your lip and twiddled your fingers as you examined his every movement. Swallowing hard, you tapped his shoulder and spoke with trembling fingers,

“I talked to him last night.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“That’s right! I talked to Santa! I told him that the kids here got it all wrong about you, so....,” your hands dropped to your lap, still fidgeting, still clutching at your pajamas. 

Your friend had always been so unpredictable. You were never sure whether he’d be angry or happy by acts of kindness. He could view them as either pandering or genuine love. 

This minute of silence was the longest moment of your life.

Then, causing you to freeze, you felt a hard, calloused hand encircle your wrist. Your body was entrapped in warmth as he trapped you in a soft embrace for the first time in years. Without a moments hesitation, you latched your arm around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder.

With a voice softer than a coo of a dove, he said along the rim of your ear,

“Th-...Tha-n-nk you...”

Quickly pressing a quick kiss to his temple, you signed along the back of his neck, deliberately pressing each symbol into his skin,

“Merry Christmas, Nicolas.” 

You would have sacrificed every gift, every piece of candy, every crumb from every cookie, if it meant the small, awkward smile now planted on your friend’s lips,

because that was truly the greatest gift you would ever receive.

_~Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night!~_


End file.
